


Knitting Society

by kathkin



Series: Summerpornathon 2014 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: summerpornathon, F/F, Texts From Last Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s not my fault I help girls realise they’re lesbians.</i> In which Morgana is married to her thesis, Gwen is an awkward fresher, and they accidentally start dating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knitting Society

**Author's Note:**

> For Challenge 1 at [summerpornathon](http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com): Texts From Last Night. Prompts:
> 
> (972): It’s not my fault I help girls realise they’re lesbians.
> 
> (416): In case you're wondering what I'm doing, I'll be banging an 18 year old this weekend. Repeatedly.
> 
> (914): I’m gay  
> (203): I know.  
> (914): Yeah, but for you.

_What were you even doing at knitting society??_

_Looking for freshers_ , Morgana texted Arthur back.

Her phone blinked a moment later, with just one word. _Pervert_.

She rolled her eyes. _It’s not my fault I help girls realise they’re lesbians_.

*

And really, what was she supposed to do? Everyone her age was looking for relationships, and commitment. Morgana was already in a committed relationship with her PHD thesis. She was after no-strings-attached sex, and there was no better place to get it than bi-curious freshers looking for their first girl-on-girl experience.

It had all gone a bit tits-up this time, though. Somehow she’d ended up arranging a coffee date. Actually, she wasn’t sure it was even a date. “I can’t believe you don’t know how to crochet,” said Gwen, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. “It’s my favourite kind of knitting – I can teach you, if you like –”

Morgana didn’t know how to knit, full stop, but she wasn’t about to admit that. She leaned forward, so that Gwen would _have_ to notice how low-cut her top was, and let her foot brush Gwen’s ankle. Gwen stuttered for a moment and wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “What sort of PHD are you doing?” she said. “I don’t even know how PHDs work. How long does it take?”

A stupidly long time, apparently. Three more coffee maybe-dates and Morgana still wasn’t any closer to getting into Gwen’s knickers. She wasn’t sure why she was still trying. Probably Gwen was straight and hadn’t realised Morgana wasn’t straight, and the whole thing was a lost cause, and Morgana should give up and find an easier mark, like the girl at the fresher club night who’d been so eager to have her tits groped.

But Gwen – Gwen was pretty, and absolutely precious. She was a first-year nursing student, and she liked knitting and hot chocolate and sitcoms. And she was single, Morgana learned on their third coffee seriously-is-this-a-date.

“My boyfriend broke up with me right before we left for uni,” she said. “I cried for a week.” Morgana perked up at that. Recently-dumped freshers were always easier targets. But then she realised that she and Gwen were probably past the point of no-strings-attached sex and deflated. “So do you have a boyfriend?” She sipped her hot chocolate. Morgana had bought it for her, and bought extra cream and syrup.

“No,” said Morgana. She was about to launch into her usual spiel about being married to her thesis, but thought better of it. “Actually, I’m gay.”

“Oh!” Gwen exclaimed. Then, with an air of reassurance, she said, “that’s fine.” As if Morgana didn’t already know that.

Two more coffee probably-not-dates and a failed attempt to teach her crochet later, Morgana gave up. She got a little bit drunk and texted Gwen. _I’m gay_.

The response came a scant few minutes later. _I know_.

_Yeah, but for you_ , Morgana texted back. She poured herself another drink and waited. When there was still no response the next morning, she thought for sure she’d fucked it up.

But then Gwen texted her that evening – one word, _drinks??_ And then a happy face and a rainbow emoji.

*

_In case you're wondering what I'm doing, I'll be banging an 18 year old this weekend. Repeatedly_ , she texted Arthur that Friday.

 _Perverrrrt_ he texted her back.

_You’re just jealous_.

*

“I’ve never done this with another girl before,” said Gwen. “Actually, I’ve only done it with one guy – oh!” she exclaimed as Morgana slipped off her bra. Then, “ _ohh_ ,” as Morgana leaned down and pressed her mouth to Gwen’s breast. She ran her tongue across Gwen’s nipple to hear her squeal.

“How do you feel about strap-ons?” she said. She had two. She went for the double-ended one, and made a point of explaining to Gwen how it worked, if she didn’t know.

“Well, you’re bigger than my ex,” said Gwen, tracing her fingers down the smooth silicon.

“Probably not difficult,” said Morgana.

Gwen’s pussy was shaved, which wasn’t that big of a surprise, and it made things a lot smoother. Morgana slipped her fingers in between her folds, then held her open and nudged the strap-on in. Gwen squeaked and gasped, and pushed up for it, pushing the other end into Morgana. Morgana’s back arched, and her hips stuttered forward.

She fucked Gwen till she was gasping at every thrust, till the strap-on made a slick sound as it moved in and out of her, till her own cunt was clenching around the other end. Then Gwen said, “please,” like a polite little girl, and Morgana reached down to play with her clit until she came.

When she eased the strap-on out Gwen’s pussy clutched at it, as if reluctant to let it go. “I think I could be gay,” said Gwen. She didn’t say it like _I think I might be gay_ , more like _I think I could get used to this_. Morgana looked up at her, all sweaty and debauched and gorgeous.

Morgana thought, _I think I could be less married to my thesis_. She said, “want to go again?”


End file.
